"Do you know why I wished to speak to you?" he asked; "can you guess?

Oh, it is no light matter, Isabel, which has led me to trouble you, no pleasant matter either. I am on the brink of ruin, threatened and betrayed by my most trusted friends. I must leave here at once, go right away from London and England. My life is not safe here for another day."

He spoke in Italian, and as he grew more excited his voice rose higher and higher, though every now and again he was minded to control it, as though fearing he might be overheard. "Yes," he continued, "those men whom I have most trusted, whom I have treated as my own brothers, with whom I have often shared my last shilling and the very clothes off my back, have turned against me. They are in league to destroy me. They are plotting against my liberty and my life!" For some minutes he raved on in this style, every now and again breaking off into curses, while I listened half horrified, half incredulous.

"For goodness' sake," I exclaimed at last, "do try and be calmer, Giannoli, and tell me what has happened and what you wish me to do."

"You are right," he answered, making an effort to control himself; "I must explain the matter or you cannot understand.... I will talk to you frankly, for you at any rate are above suspicion. You may perhaps be aware that I have been connected with many serious Anarchist ventures in the past. The explosions at St. ----, the affair in V---- three years ago, the sacking of the bank in Barcelona. All of these were, of course, very dangerous matters, in which I risked my life; but it all tended towards the destruction of society, and I readily took the risk. As far as possible I avoided taking other comrades into my confidence--partly out of regard for my own safety, partly with a view to theirs. To one or two well-trusted men, however, I confided my projects, so that in case of my arrest all proper measures might be taken." (Gnecco was one of these "trusted comrades," B---- and Mor were others.) "I was mistaken in my estimate of these men, mistaken in my confidence in them. From their lips my secret has been wormed or bought by others, until now it has become a byword, and every indiscreet fool and paid spy in our midst knows the tale of my past better than I do myself. I no longer dare attend our meetings, for all around me I hear whisperings and insinuations, and my name being pa.s.sed from one mouth to another along with references to my past actions. The torture is becoming unendurable.

Some of these cowards even descend to taunting me with their knowledge; and when I, in any way, cross their purposes in our discussions, they threaten me covertly with exposure. That disgusting young fool, Mor, only to-day, being jealous of me in some trivial matter, tried to intimidate me by hinting at the V---- affair. I felt that I could have struck him down where he stood; and then a sense of my own impotence overtook me, and I stood there, silent and confused, trying to laugh the matter off, as though I had not grasped his meaning. But I can stand this state of things no longer: it is driving me mad. When I am alone now I suddenly start with the feeling that some one is coming on me unawares. This afternoon, wishing to be alone and to think matters over, I took a walk about the Park, but the very trees seemed to be whispering about me, and before long I perceived that I was followed, that my movements were being dogged step by step. When I am alone in my room they do not even leave me in peace. They obtain entrance here by means of that Wattles woman, who is evidently in their pay. B---- cannot forgive me for not having appropriated to our private use the money expropriated in Barcelona for the propaganda; and this indeed is one of their princ.i.p.al grievances against me. Would you believe it, Isabel, last night he actually got into this house and woke me from sleep by shouting the name of the bank through that hole? When I rushed down to find him, determined to teach him a sound lesson, he was gone. But what use is there in my enlarging on this subject? You cannot fail to see the danger I am in, and the absolute imperative necessity for flight.

Another day's procrastination may be my undoing. Who knows what signal they are awaiting to denounce me, and how many others may be implicated in my ruin? I must get away from here; I must flee in absolute secrecy, and none of them must be allowed to suspect where I am gone. You and Kosinski alone I can trust. You alone must be in the secret of my flight. Will you help me, Isabel?" and at this point Giannoli seized my hand, and then, overcome and unnerved by excitement, he allowed his head to sink on to the table and sobbed convulsively.

My head was fairly swimming by this time. How far was all this true? how far the imaginings of an over-wrought, over-excited brain? However, the immediate urgencies of the situation gave me no time to carefully weigh the matter. I must either act or refuse to act, thereby leaving my friend alone to his despair and possible ruin. I decided on the former course.

"I think that you exaggerate, Giannoli," I answered him. "You are ill and over-wrought, and require rest and change. Get away from here by all means if there is any danger in remaining, but do not take too gloomy a view of the situation. I am at your disposal and willing to help you in every way in my power. Tell me where you think of going, and what I can do. But in the meantime, had we not better get supper somewhere, and discuss the situation over a little rea.s.suring food?"

This unheroic but practical suggestion met with poor Giannoli's approbation, and he confessed to not having broken his fast all day.

He also seemed relieved at the prospect of leaving the vicinity of the office where he was convinced that spies surrounded him, and having thanked and re-thanked me over and over again for my proffered a.s.sistance, he led the way down the ladder, and together we gained the street. I was horribly shocked at the haggard strained look of the unfortunate Italian which the clearer light down here revealed. He had aged ten years since his arrival. We made our way towards a small restaurant in Soho frequented princ.i.p.ally by the lower order of _cocotte_, and here over a savoury but inexpensive meal we discussed our plans.

"I can scarcely dare believe that this h.e.l.l is coming to an end!"

exclaimed Giannoli. "The a.s.surance of your sympathy is already lightening my burden. I am beginning once more to take hope and courage!

Oh, to have at last left that awful den where night and day I have felt myself watched by unseen treacherous eyes, and my every breath noted by my enemies! I shall never put foot there again. You and Kosinski must get my things away from there to-night, and to-morrow I leave London by the first continental train."

"Where do you purpose going?" I inquired.

"To South America, as soon as the arrival of funds will allow it, but, this not being practicable for the moment, I propose going first to Lisbon. There I will hide for a few weeks until I restart for Buenos Ayres, and I trust that this will have the advantage of putting my 'friends' off the track. Even for this little voyage I do not at the present moment possess the necessary funds, but in this you can no doubt a.s.sist me, for in a few days I expect some thirty pounds from my relations in Italy. If you will return to my room to-night you might rescue my guitar and what few little objects of value I possess and p.a.w.n them, and burn all papers and doc.u.ments of any kind."

"You have left everything till rather late!" I could not help exclaiming, not a little taken aback at the amount to be done, and at the rapidly advancing hour.

Supper over, I left Giannoli in Oxford Street, and made tracks for his lodging, which by great good luck I reached without any obstruction. I locked myself in, rescued a few papers of importance, burnt the rest, put his scanty personal belongings together in a box which it had been agreed I was subsequently to send Kosinski to fetch, and having secured his guitar, a silver-handled umbrella, and two or three other articles of small value, I proceeded with these to a neighbouring p.a.w.nbroker. I may mention here that since my connection with the Anarchist movement, and its consequent demands on my pocket, I had become quite familiar with the ins and outs, and more especially the ins, of these most invaluable relatives.

I reached the side door of Mr. Isaac Jacob's establishment on the stroke of eleven, but as Providence and would-be drunkards had mercifully ordained that p.a.w.nbrokers should remain open later than usual on Sat.u.r.day, I was still able to effect an entrance. I laid my goods down on the counter, and politely requested the temporary loan of 3 pounds.

"Three pounds for this d.a.m.ned lot of old rubbish," exclaimed the indignant Jew. "Do you take this for a public charity? It's not worth fifteen shillings to me, the whole lot!" and he turned the things over with his greasy hands, as though they were objectionable offal. We finally compromised for thirty-two shillings, with which sum in my pocket I triumphantly sallied forth.

My next move was to disinter Kosinski, whom I felt pretty certain of finding at a certain coffee-stall where, at that advanced hour, he was in the habit of making his one and only diurnal, or rather nocturnal repast. This coffee-stall was situated at the corner of Tottenham Court Road and a side street, and there, sure enough, stood Kosinski, munching sardines on toast, and buns, and drinking coffee, surrounded by a motley group of cabmen and loose women. These had evidently grown used to his regular attendance and treated him with marked respect and friendliness, many of the unfortunate women having often had to thank him for a meal and the price of a night's lodging when luck had failed them in other directions.

Kosinski was somewhat taken aback at my sudden appearance. "You, Isabel!" he exclaimed in some confusion, "what can have brought you here? But may I offer you a little supper? These buns are excellent!"

Tired and worried as I was, I could not help smiling at the awkward manner in which he made this offer. "No, thank you," I answered, "I am not hungry. I have come to fetch you in connection with a rather important matter. Can you come with me when you have finished your supper?"

"Yes, certainly," answered Kosinski, "if there is anything I can do.

Just let me finish these few mouthfuls and I will follow you. In the meantime will you explain what is the matter?"

Without further ado I explained to him the whole Giannoli affair as I understood it. It was a relief to me to do so, and I was anxious to hear his opinion. He was silent for some minutes after I had finished speaking, and munched reflectively the last relics of his supper.

"I am afraid," he said at last, "that Giannoli is not quite well--not quite well, mentally, I mean," he added after a slight pause. "At the same time, it is quite possible that there is some truth in what he suspects. Spies have always been abundant in our party and Giannoli is a very likely victim. He has been imprudent in the past, too believing and too foolhardy. I do not know very much about the men whom he primarily suspects, but Gnecco certainly I believe to be above suspicion. In any case it will be safer for him to leave.... I am ready now.... What can I do? Where are you going?"

"Home, and to bed," I answered. "I have been on my feet all day and I am very tired. Moreover, there is nothing that I can do till to-morrow."

I then explained to him what he was to do, where we were to meet on the following morning, and where he could find Giannoli that night. He acquiesced and we parted.

Early the following morning I found Giannoli and Kosinski, as prearranged, awaiting my arrival under the bridge of Waterloo Station.

Both looked very washed out, with the f.a.gged and pasty look of people who have been up all night. They were strolling up and down, carrying Giannoli's box between them, and making a fine but very obvious show of indifference towards a policeman who eyed them suspiciously. "Here, move on, you fellows," he was saying gruffly as I came up with them, and on perceiving me they seemed glad enough to be able to do so.

"That stupid policeman wanted to arrest us as rogues and vagabonds,"

Kosinski explained to me as we made our way towards a neighbouring coffee-shop for breakfast. "A pretty fix that would have been just now! We had scarcely settled down for a quiet sleep on the box when the meddlesome fool came up and asked our names and addresses, what we had there, what we were doing at that hour, and threatened to take us in charge unless we moved on. When I explained that we were simply waiting for our train he laughed, and said that was a likely tale! If you had not come along and thus confirmed our a.s.sertion that we expected a friend, I really believe he would have arrested us."

"Well, is everything arranged?" I inquired as we settled down to our breakfast. "How did you get on last night?"

"Oh, we have had nothing but mishaps and adventures all night," returned Kosinski. "What a night! Thank goodness it is over at last. After you left, towards one o'clock, I went off to Giannoli's room to fetch his box. I confess that I felt a little nervous about this, for I dreaded an encounter with that horrible Mrs. Wattles. She talks and talks and talks to me whenever she sees me, and insists upon asking the most indelicate questions. She is a perfect savage. But no matter; let me get on. As I crawled upstairs, I heard her in her room abusing her poor husband in the most disgusting terms. I held my breath and crept up. I found the trunk right enough in the corner, though it was none too easy to find, as there was no light in the room, and I was afraid of lighting even a match for fear of attracting attention. But on the way down a terrible accident occurred. My foot caught in a sc.r.a.p of oilcloth at the top of the stairs, just outside Mrs. Wattles's room, and I fell. Crash down the stairs went the box, and I rattled after it. The noise, of course, brought Mrs. Wattles screaming and swearing to the door. Then, bruised and bewildered as I was, I seized on the box and fled. Down the remaining stairs, out through the door, and into the street, I ran as for dear life. Oh I have never run like that before, Isabel! I remember years ago, when escaping from prison in Russia, my life depended on the efficiency of my legs. But I did not run with such fervour as I ran last night from that woman. I still feel unspeakably grateful when I think that I escaped without being recognised. She raced down after me, but being half-drunk she fell in the pa.s.sage, and it was that which saved me.... I found Giannoli in Trafalgar Square."

The remainder of the night they had spent peacefully enough, wandering about the streets, occasionally being "moved on" by a policeman, until the sceptical officer already referred to had evinced an intention of arresting them both as rogues and vagabonds. I could not help smiling at the peremptory manner in which poor Giannoli's adventures had almost been brought to a conclusion.

I gave Giannoli the proceeds of the previous night's p.a.w.nings, and I and Kosinski turned out on the table what money we had about us. It was just sufficient to cover the expenses of the first stage of Giannoli's journey.

We proceeded--a quaint procession--to the station. Kosinski led the way with head bent forward and even resolute tread, apparently untired and unaffected by his night's vicissitudes, with the much battered box on his shoulders. Behind him followed Giannoli and myself, the former nervous and unstrung, constantly turning from right to left with the idea that we were being followed. In the station, half deserted this Sunday morning, we had another long wait. We talked of many things together, and I had never found Kosinski so friendly and communicative before. There existed between Giannoli and himself the keen sympathy and understanding of two men equally devoted to an idea, equally willing to sacrifice everything to it. The Russian was more of a philosopher than the Italian, more engrossed in abstractions, more oblivious of his own personality, and this it was that had saved him from the possibility of Giannoli's terrible malady. At the same time he was by no means inclined to make light of Giannoli's fears, and together they talked them over, Kosinski promising to investigate them after his friend's departure, and to see if it was possible to discover who was really at fault.

"No man can ever hold such threats over me," said Kosinski, "for I have never taken any one into my confidence. I have always acted alone. Some day it may fall to my lot to pay with my life for some action on behalf of our ideas. When that moment comes I shall be ready for the sacrifice."

"I too," exclaimed Giannoli with fervour--"I too would not hesitate to make the sacrifice if I felt the right moment had arrived. If to-morrow--if at this very moment--I saw the means of advancing the Anarchist cause by the sacrifice of my life, I would give it without regret or hesitation. But to lose it for no purpose, before I have finished my work, to fall a victim to the envy and treachery of my own comrades, and to involve others in my own ruin, I cannot bear. When my time comes to die I wish to feel that my death is at any rate of some use. There are moments when an Anarchist can help his ideas on better by dying than by living. But for me the moment is not yet quite ripe."

He then relapsed into silence, and the two friends sat together, engrossed in their own reflections, without saying a word.

After a time Giannoli turned to me: "I will write to you as soon as I reach Lisbon, Isabel, and let you know how I am getting on. There at least I am little known, and I will stay with an old friend whose sincerity is above suspicion--Avvocato Martini. You and Kosinski are the only two persons whom I regret in leaving London. You have done more for me than I can ever thank you for. You have saved my life, and although I do not value life for itself, it may be of value to our Cause, and I hope yet to give it for some good purpose. Give what explanation you think fit of my disappearance. Above all, let no one suspect where I am gone."

The train left at ten o'clock. Giannoli was deeply affected at parting from us, and as the train was about to leave he seized our hands and embraced us. "Something tells me," he exclaimed, "that I shall never see either of you again. Write to me sometimes and bear me in mind. Do not believe any lies you may be told about me. I have only our principles at heart. Good-bye," and the train steamed out of the station.

I remained alone with Kosinski. The hour was still quite early, and there was much to be talked over together. "Let us go to some picture gallery," I suggested, "so as to talk things over and to settle what we are to give out concerning Giannoli's disappearance."

"No, please, don't," answered the Russian in genuine alarm; "you know how I hate art, Isabel. It goads me to madness. We must think of some other place."

We strolled out of the station together and wended our way across the bridge and along the Strand, up by St. Martin's Church, and eventually found ourselves close to old St. Giles's Churchyard. "Let us sit down here," I said, indicating a seat; "I am tired of walking."

"It is little better than a picture gallery," murmured Kosinski, "but it will do if you are tired," and we sat down. Kosinski advised me to feign absolute ignorance of Giannoli's whereabouts and to set afloat the idea of his having committed suicide. He asked me to let him know as soon as I received news from the fugitive, and he, in the meantime, would investigate the matter of the "conspiracy." As we parted he said to me:

"I am very glad, Isabel, that I have had to deal with you in this matter. You may sometimes have thought me unduly harsh in my estimate of your s.e.x. I am not without reason in this. Women are rarely of much use in a movement like ours. They so rarely seem able to forget _themselves_, to detach themselves from the narrow interests of their own lives. They are still the slaves of their past, of their pa.s.sions, and of all manner of prejudices. But you are different.... There have even been moments when I felt that I had other things to say to you, things which it is better to leave unsaid. I must not be guilty of the weakness which I condemn in women. An Anarchist's life, you see, is scarcely his own. He has no time to indulge in personal sentiment.

Good-bye," and before I had time to answer he was gone.

I returned home and spent the remainder of the day locked in my room, absorbed in many conflicting thoughts. I was grieved beyond words at Giannoli's trouble, at the possibility of foul play, at the almost more grievous possibility of mental disorder in him. Then again and again Kosinski's last words recurred to me, and I could not help reflecting that, slight as they were, he had probably never said so much to any other woman. I was compelled to admit to myself that the Russian, for all his strange ideas and brusque manners, had grown to be a great deal to me. But I felt that he was a hopeless case--the kind of man to whom personal happiness was unknown, and who would succeed in rendering unhappy any one rash enough to care for him. "How easy happiness might be," I reflected, "with our ideas, with our freedom from prejudice. And yet it is these very ideas which will ruin his life, which----" Half unconsciously I found that my thoughts had been drifting from abstract ideas and abstract enthusiasms to persons, and with this divorce from abstractions began a feeling of weariness, of nausea. I thought of Kosinski's words again, of his contempt for personal sentiment in an Anarchist, of what he had said about women; and I struggled hard within myself to turn my thoughts into other channels. It was useless, and at last, weary of the effort, I retired to bed and took refuge in slumber.

During the following weeks I worked on fairly regularly at the _Tocsin_ and saw Kosinski not unfrequently, on which occasions he most carefully avoided any recurrence of personalities, however vague these might be.

Giannoli's disappearance created considerable commotion, and every one was at a loss to imagine what could have become of him. My relations with those Italians whom he had suspected were naturally very strained and uncomfortable, for I did not know what to think of them, how far to trust or mistrust them. Kosinski, as promised, investigated the matter as carefully as he could, but the exact truth was difficult to ascertain. Gnecco we neither of us for one instant suspected, but we felt some degree of uncertainty about the others. Whether or no there had been some amount of unclean work going on, it was anyway quite certain that a great part of Giannoli's suspicions were the outcome of his overwrought and exhausted mental condition.

About a fortnight after his departure I received at last a letter from Giannoli. This consisted of a few words, written evidently in much hurry and perturbation of spirit. He thanked me for the money from his relatives, which I had forwarded, which would, he said, enable him to leave at once for Argentina. "It has arrived in the very nick of time,"

he wrote, "for here I am no longer safe. Avvocato Martini, of whom I spoke to you in such high terms, is not to be trusted. He intercepts my letters, and has, I believe, communicated with my enemies in London.

Thank Heaven! I am now able to get away. In South America I shall once more settle down to the propaganda work, and I shall be out of the power of these informers. My old friend, Giovanni Barelli, awaits me there.

We shall live together and life will once more become endurable. I am anxious to hear from Kosinski. What is the result of his inquiries? My best love to him and to you, dear friend, and again a thousand thanks to you both. I will write at greater length from America."

I showed the letter to Kosinski. He read it through with a serious expression. "I fear," he said, "that it is a case of hallucination, and that there is but very slight foundation of truth to his suspicions.

I have looked into the matter and can see no adequate grounds for suspecting the men whom he regarded as his enemies over here. Giannoli exaggerates and distorts everything. I must write to him and try to rea.s.sure him about this. I will tell him that he is mistaken. We cannot afford to lose such a comrade."

"Beware," I returned half in jest--"beware, lest you too fall under his ban."